


Drakov's Daughter

by natalianovna



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire, Hurt Natasha Romanov, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tony Stark, SHIELD, Spy Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, loki fucked with nat's head, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-09-29 17:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalianovna/pseuds/natalianovna
Summary: "Can you? Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov’s daughter, San Paulo, the hospital fire? Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it’s gushing red and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentiment. Pathetic! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors, but they are a part of you, and they will never go away."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> because writing hurt nat is my specialty lmao it's an issues  
oddly therapeutic though

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can you? Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov’s daughter, San Paulo, the hospital fire? Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it’s gushing red and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentiment. Pathetic! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors, but they are a part of you, and they will never go away."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurt nat is my specialty lmao it's an issue  
but writing these are therapeutic so

“I’ve got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out.”

“Can you? Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov’s daughter, San Paulo, the hospital fire? Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it’s gushing red and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentiment. Pathetic! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors, but they are a part of you, and they will never go away. I won’t touch Barton, not until I make him kill you. Slowly. Intimately. In every way he knows you fear. And then he’ll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I’ll split his skull. This is my bargain, you mewling quim!”

Natasha screams as his voice rings in her head, sitting upright, drenched in sweat. Reminders of her sins flash through her head like a movie reel. She runs her fingers through her hair, combing her red curls back until strands come off in her fingers. 

Legs shaking, she pushes herself up and stumbles into the bathroom. It takes her a minute, but with shaking hands, she gets the water going and puts her head under the sink, letting the cold water rush over her face. It runs in rivers, over her eyes, into her mouth, through the roots of her hair. Coughing, she stands back up, leaning against the counter. Her shaking legs barely hold her weight.

She stares into the mirror, barely recognising the woman staring back at her. Puffy eyes stare out at her, spots of light on a face shining from a mixture of sweat, water, and tears. The inside of her bottom lip stings, and a metallic tang fills her mouth. She spits blood into the sink, watching, almost mesmerised, as it swirls in the still-running water, around and around and around until finally sliding down the drain.

She sinks down, back against the sink, every inch of her shaking. It had been nearly three months since a nightmare has messed with her this badly. She hates it. Hates how weak and useless it makes her feel, hates how little control she has over it. She imagines it all being pushed down, deep deep down into her chest, until the horrors can no longer disturb her.

This time, it’s already too late. Her already ragged breaths become even more uneven, chest heaving as she pulls her knees up. She wraps her arms around her knees and rocks back and forth slightly, trying in vain to comfort herself, to snap out of it already. 

She keeps her eyes open until it burns, because even in the brief moments when she blinks, she sees every horrible thing she has ever done plastered on the backs of her eyelids like some sick mural. Yes, what Loki had said was genuinely upsetting to her. Not that she would ever give anyone the satisfaction of knowing that. Years later, his voice still echoes around her head, cruel reminders of all the hurt she has caused. 

“You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers.”

Had he known, even then, that SHIELD had been HYDRA? Or was it all the same to him? Natasha lied and killed for SHIELD, and in extension, for HYDRA. 

“But I guess I just traded in the KGB for HYDRA.”

Just another organisation to serve, to kill for, to obey without question because it was what she had been trained to do. Seduce and lie and kill. The story of her life.

She licks her lips, tasting a faint salty residue. Salty, like the oceans across which she had fled those who created her. Oceans in which she had forced people under, watched them gasp for their last breaths and laughed as they tried in vain to escape the fate the universe had long ago carved out for them. No one escaped the Black Widow. 

“I have a very specific skill set.”

Those skills had been used to lie and kill in the service of countless liars and killers. The god had indeed been right about that. Killed for the KGB. Killed for HYDRA. Her sense of right and wrong was so jaded she felt that on some level, perhaps she had known it was not SHIELD demanding she do what she had done. Yet she had gone forth with it anyway, not caring. Willing to believe that wrong was indeed right. On her worse days, she has no problem believing that.

She buries her face in her knees, wishing to disappear into herself, to curl herself up so tight she will simply vanish and have never existed. The guilt is crushing her, burying her alive. She is drowning in the ocean of her sins and she knows this is what she deserves, despite what her so-called friends would say. No amount of good can undo the horrors she caused, can atone for her sins.

“Your ledger is dripping, it’s gushing red…”

She blinks, flashes of blood and snow and bodies. Her hands are dripping in blood, up to her elbows, reaching her armpits, dripping down onto the floor. She will drown in the blood. She stands, still shaking uncontrollably, and runs her arms under the water. Scrubbing her skin raw with the stupid honey scented soap Stark bought them all for Christmas. She pours the bottle over her arms, scrubbing the soap into her skin, praying the water will at last wash away the red. It never does.

Her heartbeat races, skipping beats, threatening to jump out of her chest. She turns the water hotter, barely flinching as the scalding heat touches her arms. The red keeps flowing, a never-ending river of pain. She just keeps scrubbing, holding onto the futile hope that one day the blood will end, because goddammit she just wants to atone. 

“You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors, but they are a part of you, and they will never go away.”

For half an instant, she debates trying to kill herself again, but knows that it will do no good. It’s never worked before, so why this time. The thought sends a bolt of energy up her spine, causing her heart to beat even faster, adding to the pricks of anxiety rushing through her stomach. The thought gives her a rush. Even after all these years, the occasional thoughts of hurting people, herself included, still give her some twisted thrill, a rush of adrenaline. She can never atone because deep down, she is still the same homicidal maniac they forced her to become. 

All she wants is to move forward, to get past the horrors she has caused. Yet once again, that horrid god was right. The horrors are a part of her because they were her fault. She is a monster. No matter how hard she tries, they will never go away. It isn’t some blatant injustice in the universe. It is her punishment for causing an eternity of suffering for countless nameless masses, for becoming so feared she is the equivalent of the devil, or the devil’s maiden, in some stories.

The lights flicker over the wall for half an instant, creating ghostly flames that send her spiraling even further into memory. 

“...the hospital fire…”

Flames dance over the walls, the crackling drowned out by the screams. The frail coughs of sick children. The wails of mothers as they clutched the children they had just brought into the world. The wind carried the bloodcurdling screeches to her, tucked away in a shack, the sounds bouncing off the walls, become more distorted and demented with every pass. She can still hear the very worst part ringing in her ears as though it were happening that very moment; the laughter. The sick, manic laughter birthed from her own throat as she took some kind of pleasure in their suffering. It was conventionally wrong, sure, even Natalia knew it in that instant. But it felt oh so right. She had suffered and so would they. This was just a taste of the pain she had felt. She was being forced to carry out another’s bidding, to cause the pain her handlers didn’t have the stomach to inflict. It hurt her to cause this type of pain, but she did what she always did with pain; pushed it down and ignored it. Forced herself to feel some sort of glee because she had nothing else to keep her going, to convince herself to keep performing this atrocious deeds without a fight. 

It sickens her, to think about who she was. No one knows those parts, the parts she sees as being the ugliest of all. What they did to her was awful. It haunts her more than anyone will ever know. But in the dead of night, more often than not, what keeps her awake is her own guilt. The disgust at who she was. Who she is. How much she utterly despises herself. 

“...San Paulo…”

That one she can’t even think about. One of the worst. She was so young, barely fifteen years old. It haunts her in flickers, like candlelight flickering on a window, like a fleeting glance that pauses for just an instant. The screams. Always the screams. Every mission, every kill. Smoke rising from the burning trees. Slitting his throat before pushing him out from inside her, the waterfall of blood pouring onto her chest. The thud of the girl’s tiny body hitting the ground as the bullet pierced her skull. The boy barely running three steps before his body was beside that of his sister. Screams of horror. Her own anger. The woman who came home to find the blood of her family and neighbours staining the dirt a dark crimson. The fleeting sense of emotion through her own chest as she watched, only to quickly push it down and bring her own knife to her arm in punishment for such weakness. It was a horror show.

“Drakov’s daughter…”

Forget Clint killing her intimately. He didn’t truly love her. She had killed the one person who made her feel something real in those years of lies and cold blooded murder. Natasha cannot even bear to think her name. She had killed the girl slowly, intimately, her dead father left sitting in an armchair in the next room. She had shed a single tear as she heard Drakov’s daughter moan, not even scream, as her hands closed around the girl’s neck even as Natalia’s lips were still pressed against hers. After what felt like centuries, she felt the girl’s body relax beneath her. Without a second glance, Natalia left the bed, pulled her clothes on a left. Hesitating for a second, she turned back and put two bullets through the girl’s chest, a punishment to the one person who had taught her so much in such a short time.

“Love is for children.”

The sentiment repeated to her throughout her youth rang through her ears as she sat opposite Drakov’s daughter, her fake laughter becoming real, the false persona of awkward giggly teen falling away to reveal a genuinely awkward, confused girl. Only seventeen years old. All she knew was that this girl had made her feel things no one else had. Her lips were magical. Seducing her had not been at all difficult. The things Natalia whispered into Drakov’s daughter’s ear were genuine. That was the one and only time Natalia’s body was used on a mission in a way that she enjoyed. She had learned from a young age that her body was not hers to control, and yet as she felt the girl’s lips on her, felt her hips buck against her will, heard herself moan without meaning to, she finally understood. 

And yet, minutes later, she left two dead bodies in her wake and swore to never again believe in something so foolish as love. People only got hurt. Love was indeed for children, and sure, maybe it felt good, but so did pulling her knife across her own skin. 

Natasha rocked back and forth, the scenes flashing before her eyes, breathing so quickly her vision turned black and her head felt light. Her guilt was eating her alive. Drakov’s daughter had hurt the most. Thinking about her left Natasha weak. Another tear fell as Natasha’s stomach lurched, an almost pleasurable feeling settling between her legs. That girl. She left her feeling so much, all wrapped up and so fucking confusing. Pain and lust and guilt and death and regret. So much regret.

She pulls herself up again and resumes scrubbing her hands under the scalding water, barely registering the pain. Screams and high, girly laughter. Blood pouring out of the sink, overflowing onto the ground. The scream as she felt the girl under her respond to her touch. The blood is up to her ankles, rising rapidly toward her knees. Her own gasps. It’s at her hips now, staining her clothes. The girl’s full, beautiful lips on her own. She is practically swimming in a river of blood, rising toward her neck, her mouth, her nose. She is going to drown here, alone, killed by all those she has killed. Ironic, yet fair, she thinks with a tiny quirk of her lips. 

And she is collapsing on the ground again, breathing so hard she is sure she is about to die. Can’t get enough air. Suffocating. Guilty. So guilty. Just let this end.

“Can you wipe out that much red?”

This isn’t pretty. This isn’t cute. This is disgusting and foolish and weak, all the result of one goddamn nightmare and the words spoken by a false god years in her past. Yet if there’s one thing she has learned, it’s that her past is never really passed.

“Agent Romanoff, I have alerted Mr. Stark that your panic attack has continued for over an hour. He should be here shortly.”

“FRIDAY,” gasps Natasha, panicking even more. “Fuck you.”

“I am just following my ‘Homicidal Spider in Distress’ protocol.”

“What the actual fuck,” Natasha whispers, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation as another wave of panic rolls in and she gasps as Loki’s voice magnifies, turning into the voices of her handlers, scolding in a thousand languages. 

And suddenly, Tony is standing in the doorway of her bedroom. “Romanoff!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment (criticize me) pleaseeeee


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Romanoff, Rushman, Romanova, whoever you are, and I will figure it out eventually, I just want to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally got around to finishing this!  
sorry it took so long whoops

“Just go,” Natasha whispers, using all her energy to keep her voice steady and slow her breathing. Suffocating. Can’t breathe. Need more air. No. Stop. Shut the fuck up. Dying. Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe.

“Romanoff, Rushman, Romanova, whoever you are, and I will figure it out eventually, I just want to help you,” Tony says hesitantly, trying to navigate the waters. These types of situations make him uncomfortable, to say the least.

The mentions of the names makes Natasha shake even more, yet another reminder of the lies she told, of the person she was. Person she is, because she can never change.

Squatting in front of the woman, Tony looks her dead in the eye. “I don’t actually know that much about you, if I’m being perfectly honest. SHIELD’s files deemed most of it unable to be put in writing, to put it kindly. But I know that I want to help you, like you’ve helped me when this shit happens to me.”

Natasha struggles to look him in the eye, and he is shocked to see the pools of water resting on her bottom eyelids. Her eyes are puffy and pools of dark makeup sit under them. He has never seen the infamous Black Widow come undone like this. Bruised and bloodied, yes, but never emotionally damaged. There wasn’t a day he didn’t question whether she was capable of truly feeling anything.

But the woman in front of him, struggling to make herself look okay even in the grips of a massive panic attack, was definitely feeling something. Eyes scanning her, just as she taught him to do, albeit in different scenarios. She probably wouldn’t like her teachings being used in a way she’d deem as being against her, but she really wasn’t in a position to argue at the moment. Her arms had red lines running up them, tiny window cracks of dried blood lining her flesh. Her nails were bitten down, and glancing back at her arms, Tony realised the lines looked suspiciously like scratch marks. 

In the space of a second, Natasha catches Tony’s eyes on her, and quickly hides her arms, not even bothering to hide that she is hiding them. Tony catches her wrists and holds them, just tight enough for Natasha to feel strangely comforted. It is grounding, feeling him holding her.

“I just want to know what’s going on, Romanoff,” Tony says to her, and she flinches under his gaze.

“You can never understand,” she whispers, green eyes boring into his, piercing him. Even in this vulnerable state, he finds her absolutely terrifying.

“Try me,” he says, as though daring her.

“You read my files,” she replies, voice eerily calm. “You know what I’ve done.”

Tony’s eyes widen slightly as he understands, and she smirks at him. Her breathing has slowed slightly, and although she’s doing well at hiding it, he knows the sighs. Her hands are still shaking in his and her chest has not ceased its heaving, though mostly hidden behind her knees. FRIDAY told him that this had been going on for over an hour, following a nightmare. He had heard her scream earlier, but thought nothing of it. Waking up screaming was, unfortunately, not a rare occurrence for Natasha. 

“Romanoff,” he starts, unsure what to say next, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “You know what I am responsible for. You’ve heard the things people say about me, how I’ve destroyed their lives. I created weapons of mass destruction, Romanoff. I hurt so many people. To some extent, I do understand.”

She glares at him and purses her lips. “You have never seen their blood run down your arms. You did not watch them die.” Her accent slips back into her words, and she seems to be struggling to find the right words. 

“You think that eases my guilt?”

“Does it keep you awake at night?”

“You know it does,” Tony whispers. “You have seen me at my worst, Romanoff. I’m fucking far from perfect.”

“No, you are not perfect. But you are not a monster.” She just barely whispers the last part, the words hardly leaving her lips. Yanking her hands back, she shakily stands and begins to leave. Although she would never admit it to him, just hearing Tony’s voice was somehow calming. Made her feel less alone. But he made her feel more guilty, abated the panic while increasing the guilt. 

Reaching out, he catches her arm. She figured he would do that. “Let me go, Stark.” 

“Not until you talk to me.”

“You know exactly what my files say, why what I have done cannot even be written.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he says quickly, instantly regretting the words.

“Bad choice, Stark.”

“Romanoff.”

Natasha just raises her eyebrows at him. “Loki spoke the truth.”

That sentence gives Tony pause. “Natasha, what was he talking about? Such as, who the fuck is Drakov’s daughter?”

Natasha sinks to the ground, arm still in Tony’s grasp, holding back sobs. She is shaking from head to toe, chest rising and falling impossibly fast. She is gasping in air, clenching and unclenching her fists in an effort to get herself under control. 

And suddenly she is pushing Drakov’s daughter against a wall, lips pressed against hers. The girl moans into her mouth, and Natalia’s entire body shudders. She has never felt anything like this in her life. One hand is on the girl’s waist, the other against her cheek, pulling them closer until they are wrapped together. They are one, connected at the lips, at the chest, hands clasped. Natalia shudders again as a hand moves over her body, gently squeezing at her chest. She has never felt more alive as she presses her lips even harder against the girl, taking her bottom lip gently in her teeth as the girl moans again. Gently moving her lips down to the girl’s neck, feeling Drakov’s daughter becoming undone beneath her. She moans again into Natalia’s mouth, and Natalia sighs in return, feeling truly alive for the first time in her life. 

“Romanoff!” Tony’s voice jolts her back into the present, hands squeezing her wrists. “Hey! What’s happening?” Although he might not be the best in these situations, he is trying, and Natasha has to give him credit for that. 

“Drakov’s daughter…” Natasha begins, voice catching in her throat. She closes her eyes and takes and shaky breath, shoulders heaving and shaking. She looks straight into Tony’s eyes, and in that moment, he understands. His eyes widen for half an instant, for long enough that Natasha sees the movement. Her face sets and something like anger flickers across her features. 

“Oh! It’s fine...that...that’s not an issue or anything!” Tony bumbles, trying to amend the situation somewhat while keeping the shock out of his voice. 

Natasha relaxes a tiny bit, rolling her eyes at him. “She was…magnificent. Beautiful. Perfect. And I killed her,” she whispers, sobs wracking her body. “She had her whole damn life ahead of her and I took it from her. She trusted me in the most intimate way and I repaid her by…” She slams her head back against the wall, and Tony’s eyes widen in concern.

“Romanoff! Take deep breaths. And also, I really don’t need to know about your sex life.”

“Shut up,” Natasha whispers, the ghost of a smirk etching itself on her features.

“I can’t fix this. I can’t alleviate your guilt, as much as I want to. And goddamnit, I’m so sorry I can’t,” Tony’s words are genuine. This is a side of him that shocks Natasha. She would have almost thought he was incapable of such caring and concern.

For nearly a quarter of an hour, the two of them stay in that bathroom, Tony still firmly clenching Natasha’s wrists and she tries to calm her breathing. A few times, he sees something flicker behind her eyes, and knows she is back in that room with Drakov’s daughter. Doing what, he doesn’t really want to know.

Natasha bites her lip, and the sensation jolts her back and forth from the past to the present. Her back arching up off the bed. Tony’s hands on her wrists. Soft lips between her legs, tongue moving just right. The tears dripping down her cheeks. 

She stands shakily, considerably calmer than she had been an hour ago. “Thank you,” she whispers to Tony, looking him dead in the eye with an expression that screamed “If you tell anyone about this I swear to fucking god you may never be heard from again.”

He takes the cue and begins to leave, before pausing in the doorway of her bedroom. “Anytime, Romanoff,” he says, winking at her.

Pulling the bathroom door shut and practically ripping her clothes off, Natasha steps under the hot spray from the shower. For a fleeting instant, she feels less alone. Like she belongs. And in that moment, it’s all she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed?  
this was really heavy...

**Author's Note:**

> comment (criticize me) pleaseeeeee


End file.
